Irene hesitated. She hoped it would be taken for careful consideration. Chaos likes to turn people into walking arche-types, main characters in search of a part. You’re a great detective. And you already fulfil all the criteria for a certain fictional Great Detective. She could easily see Vale being dragged deeper into stereotype and falling victim to chaos. But would it actually help to say that? He thoroughly detested the Fae, both as individuals and as a race. Comparing him to them would not help his mood or make him sleep any better.

Vale apparently took her silence for agreement. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t talk about it, Winters, but you and I both know that my family is . . . unreliable. I broke with them because of their more dubious practices. Black magic. Poisoning. But there’s worse. Winters, there is . . .’ He swallowed. ‘There is hereditary insanity in my family. I thought I had escaped it. But now . . .’

‘Rubbish!’ Irene was surprised by the firmness of her tone. ‘This would probably have happened to any unprotected human who went there. You saw how the locals reacted.’ They were puppets on strings, toys to be jerked around at the whims of Venice’s Fae masters, backstage props and chorus to the ongoing drama. ‘Kai and I were lucky enough to be protected. It’s that simple.’

‘Ah, yes. Your protection.’ Vale didn’t look wholly comforted, but he did look slightly less despairing than he had a moment ago. ‘How did you obtain it?’

‘I took vows to the Library,’ Irene said briefly. ‘A mark was set on me.’

‘Details, Winters,’ Vale prompted. ‘Details.’

‘We don’t talk about it.’ She hunched her shoulders defensively. Now it was her turn to look away from him. She remembered bits and pieces of the night she took her vows to the Library. The questioning by a panel of older Librarians. The nerve-racking, stomach-clenching panic that she wouldn’t be found worthy. And then a dark room, somewhere in the bowels of the Library, somewhere she had never found again. She had been alone in the silence there, and a sudden crashing flare of light had brought her to her knees and carved a pattern across her shoulder-blades . . .

‘It would distract me. . .’ Vale said. Outside, another cab creaked past.

‘I can show you the brand, if you want.’ It was harder to say the words than she had expected. She wasn’t particularly body-shy, but the Library mark was something she automatically kept hidden and private. But it would still be easier to show it than to talk about that night.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flare of interest in Vale’s face. ‘If it wouldn’t be too inconvenient,’ he said, in an encouraging tone.

Irene turned away from him and reached behind her back to unbutton her dress. Her thoughts were complicated. Part of her mind was screaming that she was alone in a bedroom with Vale and was about to bare her back to him, and was this really a good idea? What would it do to their carefully managed friendship? Another part of her mind thought it was an excellent idea, and was sotto voce suggesting directions that the two of them could take from there. And the rest of her mind was trying to convince her it was really just to distract Vale from his nightmares, and that if she ignored all the other thoughts and emotions, then they would simply evaporate.

She undid the buttons at the back of her neck, grateful that she was wearing a dress which buttoned down the back rather than the front. And this wouldn’t require her to strip to the waist to show Vale her shoulders. That might be taking things a bit too fast.

But she was still utterly conscious of his presence, lying on the bed behind her in the quiet, dimly lit room, and of his eyes on her. When she’d been younger, she’d idolized great detectives and dreamed her own dreams. It had been part of the reason that she’d chosen her name. She knew – she accepted – that the man behind her was his own person and not some sort of fake-Holmes. But that didn’t stop her caring for him, for who he was. If she had to take him to the Library, then she would. She was already in enough trouble. What was one more breach of regulations?

And if it did all go wrong and she was ordered away from this world, then what?

She slipped the dress down from her shoulders, holding it modestly against her breasts, exposing her shoulders and back. She was aware that the straps of her brassiere partly obscured the markings across her back, but most of it should be visible. ‘Can you see it?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ Vale sat up behind her. Irene didn’t look round, but she could hear the creaking of the bed and the rustle of the pushed-aside bedspread. ‘It does look like a relatively normal tattoo, composed of scrollwork or Chinese characters . . . Why can’t I understand it? I thought Strongrock said that everything in the Language would look like a man’s native language, if he tried to read it.’

‘Library marks are an exception to the rule,’ Irene said. She tried to relax and keep her breathing even, and not think about how close behind her he must be, how easy it would be to turn round and kiss him.

‘Is it hazardous to the touch?’

‘I don’t think so. Nobody’s ever died of it.’ She realized that might cast a dubious light on her behaviour and quickly added, ‘That I know of.’

‘If I may . . .’

Her throat tightened. ‘Of course,’ she said.

She felt the faint brush of his fingers against her skin, gliding along the lines of her tattoo. His fingers were feverishly hot – or was that just her? – and as he leaned in closer, she could hear his breathing come faster.